Horses stand silently amidst the fading Oaks of Warwick Slade, resigned to the changing season, they gently graze in the face of the adversity they will likely endure through the thin times ahead. They watch us pass with suspicion. Warwick Slade, indeed the whole forest, is wet under foot, standing water is visible throughout filling any hollow or low ground; walking can become increasingly arduous. Again, walking in familiar regions we traverse previously untrodden paths; tracts of wood, brooks and hollows as yet unseen. As evening draws closer the bland damp grey sky gives way to a sunset of blues, pinks, oranges and reds. Any warmth from the fading Sun that had permeated the blanket of cloud, disappears along with Sun; the air cools and fine mists rise from a myriad of small brooks and gullies, filtering through the the stands of silhouetted trees to spill out, retaking the night landscape.